RPlog:Severed Connections
Poking through the dusty old house hadn't been as unpleasant as Jessalyn had feared. Though Paul Nighman's negative memories and emotions of the place and its past inhabitant had sometimes tainted her own thoughts, for the most part seeing the place only brought back the fondest recollections of a man who had been like a father to her at one point. His loss was hard to reconcile, in a year which had seen so many other losses and tragedies that she had trouble keeping herself afloat at times. The serenity of a Jedi was the main thing that had saved her from drowning in the pain of loss, separation and failure. And her friendship with Luke, newly re-discovered in the past days, did a lot to buoy her hope in the future and faith in the Force. Now, as she opens cabinet after cabinet, scouring the few things that had been left behind, Jessa gives a short huff of victorious laughter and pulls a dark, elongated bottle from the back of the highest shelf. "What have we here... Alderaani wine. I wonder what this is worth." Brushing the dust from the label, she peers closely before grinning at her companion. "It's older than you are!" No, not suave. He isn't *anything* that approximates a suave sort of fellow. Rather, in this moment, he is careless, silly, stupid sometimes, for yes, Jedi could be stupid if they damn well pleased from time to time. And so, he stands quite unaffectedly beside his former student, blue irises hazing over as the pupils dilate and lose focus on the magnificent mass of firey hair that Jessalyn has been blessed with, spirit absently perched somewhere out a few parsecs from reality. Caught in a daydream. Never before has he allowed himself this kind of disconnected existence. Not once. No, he'd always been alert, and if it so happened that he was meditating or calling upon the shadows of friends and ancestors, there was always that vital sliver of consciousness kept awake and anchored to the here, the now. "Hmmm," he murmurs as she mentions the wine, not really replying to her, but rather the manner in which the red tendrils have shifted their position since she's come up with the bottle, "Hmmm." Such an effortless movement. Such a wonderful play by these fingers of light. "Quite old indeed," he suddenly says, straightening himself as if preparing for a leecture, wiping the frivolous gossamer filaments away with the sweeping gesture of his hand as it comes to rest on Jessa's shoulder. Well. Wiping most of them away, at least. She smiles radiantly, connected, as well, to that infinite fabric of the Force, aware of his drifting attention but not caring as his hand settles on her shoulder. Things were so quiet now. There had been hints of danger and sadness, things she could sense sometimes through the mists of the future, but those worries have dissolved for the moment, and there is no place she would rather be. "I'd have it appraised if I was smart -- but I'm not," Jessalyn laughs lightly, bringing the bottle up closer to her line of vision. "Care to drink it with me instead?" Her fingers are already upon the elaborate contraption connected to the bottle's corked opening, ready to release it should the Jedi Master consent. A fuse, when it shorts, gives off a radiant spark of protest for one short millisecond before it dies, dies so quickly that there remains not even an ember to mark where once there was a functional component of an electrical device. Millions of mechanics and technicians have doubtlessly been witness to a nuisance such as this before they tossed the faulty fuse and replaced it with a functional one. A new one. Such is the curious nature of machinery. It can be replced, for the most part, without much ado or thought to what is being tossed in favor of the upgrade of repair. Animals, too, fall largely under the category of 'expendable', in the eyes of most beings who are not sensitive to the Force-presence of all life. Animals are beasts of burden, sources of food, sources of energy. Force-beings driving Force-beings on a simultaneously base and intangible level. People.... sentients... Ah.... they cannot be replaced. Regardless of what the laws of evolutiona nd biology and reproduction dictate, regardless of the fact that beings exist laregely to reproduce and perpetuate the species, a sentient life is not so easily replaced as the biologists would think. A sentient life leaves a mark on all other sentients it touches, on all paths it crosses there is a shadow of its presence, there is an indelible life-print upon all of its friends and relatives and even its enemies. When a sentient dies, it leaves a hole in the fabric of others' existences. Regardless of what the bilogists think. Or the sentient itself, sometimes... for sometimes they do take their own lives, blind to the fact that their death, their absence, the negating of their unique Force-presence will extinguish an integral part of all those they have encountered. He feels it now. Where is the mechanic to replace the loss? The cork does not leave the bottle. His hand does not leave Jessalyn's shoulder. His eyes do not leave her hair. A freeze. Time stops. Nothing. Nothing beyond the loss. Nothing beyond the void. Nothing beyond the roaring blackness that threatens to engulf them both and tear the flesh from his bones as the sudden, merciless vise of grief and fury smashes any quiet decency of control and obliterates the last vestiges of clarity. It overtakes him with lightning speed. And it is almost deadly. A loud, explosive noise as there is a shattering of glass and the contents of the bottle flash to the floor, staining the ground with the rich red of the wine. Blood. Orson's blood. Orson's blood spilt uselessly. Selfishly. Foolishly. Orson... you blind, stupid, selfish, pathetic man. Where is the mechanic to fix the loss? "Fool!" snarls Luke, "Blind fool!" The knowledge is suddenly there, like a shockwave sent across vast, impossible expanses, reaching the heart of the woman whose life force was bound up so much in the intimate fabric of Orson Tighe's. His death hits her with terrible ferocity, seeing for a fleeting moment the sneer on Simon Sezirok's face as he delivered the mortal blow. Simon! She should have been there. She should have been there to help him confront this new butcher of Jedi. But she had failed on that count, as she had failed Orson in so many others. Luke's sense of outrage echoes with her own: he was right, this was a foolish, senseless death, and the part of her that still yearns for what they had once shared cries out in silent agony. Shards of broken glass cut into Jessalyn's bare feet and calves, causing little rivulets of her blood to trickle into the growing pool of wine on the floor. She's unsure if the explosion was caused by Luke, or by her own suddenly lifeless hands letting go of the bottle. And then, she's on her knees, heaving for breath and letting out a desperate scream as her fingers dig into her hair. "Orson!" she sobs. "Gods, no!" "FOOL!" is once more the booming declaration that thunders through the bottles of the cabinet, rattling the glass with the intensity of the emotion behind it, aided in no small part by the dark Force-distortions roiling in Luke's heart and breaking free as he ceases to struggle with the anger and confusion, allowing everything without restraint, without heed to the darkness that he invites. He tastes it all and grinds his teeth even as he savors the bitter fruit or his rage. "How DARE he! HOW DARE HE!" The grief is so acute it must be trasmuted into something more malleable, something more familiar. Great shards of fury rake through his being. Orson. After he had come so close... after that meeting on the beach.... after Orson had finally released some of the self-loating, some of the pain, some of the fear... after... after... "Do not weep for him!" he hears himself raging even as his own hot tears start, falling unbidden... It is the first time since facing his father that the Jedi has descended into such a naked state of emotion. It will also be his last. Unguarded, bathed in the bewilderment of someone who has lost a close friend, an ally... such a dangerous state can not be revisted. Ever. For anything. But for now... for one more moment... he weeps even as he silently screams at Orson for having been such an... Orson. It baffles Jessalyn at first, as she senses the waves of Darkness coming from Luke, washing over her, as powerful as her own grief and shocked denial. She sways for a moment, caught between joining into that rage and that darkness and clinging to the anchor of Light that she had only recently had any faith in. It was only after being tested to the brink of despair that she knew the true measure and meaning of her faith -- but it is rocked by this, in the initial moment of outrage and pain. Tipping her head back, she looks with blurred vision at the tears streaking Luke's face. "How can this be?" she chokes. "Why? Luke -- I wasn't there!" And then, unable to tolerate such an avalanche of dark emotion any longer, the Jedi lets out a great, tired sigh that borders on a forgiving sob and sinks to his knees beside Jessalyn. How old he feels in this moment. How old. How weary. There... there it is, the slow regaining of control, the shutting of the door on his freshly wounded soul, raw and sore from the pain of loss... there it is. The white quiet of familiarity as he summons his will to obey him and close this dark chapter of his life for good. "I wasn't there either," he offers, wiping at the tears as their source slowly disappears, "None of us... none of those who loved him..." He falls silent, reflecting on his words. He must choose them carefully after having shown Jessalyn the capacity of his rage. "And then again, he didn't want us there, either." She doesn't want to admit to herself how frightened she is of Luke's anger. It was devastating, in a way, reflecting upon her worst fears -- as well as his. If Luke Skywalker were to ever be consumed by the Dark Side and become its tool, the Jedi would very likely be doomed. Including herself. Having seen the rage, as well as his mastery of the Force and his own will that puts it aside, she closes her mind to it, unable to fathom and deal with its implications just yet. Not now, when the pain coursing through her, both mental and physical, ruthlessly grips her, making it difficult to breathe or even think about anything but the overwhelming loss. "I don't know," she says, shaking her head, sobbing, eyes leaking hot tears. "He pushed me away so much, but in the end -- he had learned so much, and it was still there, somehow... I -- I was supposed to be there. I was supposed to help him against Sezirok." The mention of the Selas brings another sensation, and she follows the tendrils of the Force for its source, sensing that Simon himself was nearly mortally wounded, barely hanging onto life. If she had the strength and power, Jessalyn fears she would reach across the stars to snuff out what was rest of that life. "Luke," she cries, frantic, unaware of the words leaving her lips. Severed Connections